


baby come back i know the way around your heart

by bbabyhoney



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Collins and Alex happened, M/M, PTSD, Spoilers!, its war, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbabyhoney/pseuds/bbabyhoney
Summary: “Christ,” Alex snorts, wiping his nose and notices his hand comes back covered in that same thick and choking oil. The young lad smiles, “Indeed,” He laughs, voice thick and homelike and it makes Alex want to jump back into that treacherous cold water just so he could be rescued by the boy again.or the one where Peter is a fool for Alex and Alex smirks a bit too much





	baby come back i know the way around your heart

**Author's Note:**

> for amy, title from good girls by lany

The almighty throb of Alex’s heart calms only when the hand of a saviour reaches over the wooden side of the boat and offers him safety. They’re a little crooked; the fingers, unscathed and unscarred, the knuckles soft and white. It's a boy, he realises, too young for this war, as tough hands curl around his upper arms and drag him over the side and onto the tiny vessel. Alex heaves, the sickly bitterness of the saltwater still coating the whole of his mouth and throat, and he scrambles a little, sitting up. He's covered in oil, it's smeared and slicked over his cheeks and jaw, down his throat like a bruise. The green khaki of his uniform is black with water and even blacker with the shimmering patches of oil stained into it, but he's safe, finally, saved by this young lad offering up his palm as an anchor. 

Alex’s eyes filter up, across neat grey slacks and burgundy red pullover (he can't remember fully, his mind is blurred with water and bomb blasts, but he's sure he has one at home), until he reaches the face. It's welcoming, soft looking, big blue eyes staring right back at him, blonde hair neat. “Christ,” Alex snorts, wiping his nose and notices his hand comes back covered in that same thick and choking oil. The young lad smiles, “Indeed,” He laughs, voice thick and homelike and it makes Alex want to jump back into that treacherous cold water just so he could be rescued by the boy again. 

The wobble of the small boat makes a good half of the soldiers feel more nauseous, and Alex settles next to the soft-looking dead lad, opposite the spindly figure that had been an almost constant for the time they were exiled on that bloody beach. He's aware that he's staring, he has been for most of the journey over the white horse waves, but his focus remains on the lad with the red pullover . He stands at the rudder, shoulders back and standing with stature like a young god. Alex wants these thoughts to go, his lack of heroism and apparent feelings for a boy barely old enough to even know the meaning of war equated to absolute shunning by his family, but he just can't help the building of comforting warmth in the pit of his stomach. 

As the boat groans to a stop in the harbour of small seaside town Alex had never visited before but has heard tales of from family members who had visited by railway, it's quiet, serene and flutters sonorously; so obviously home. He combs his long fingers through the oil slick of his dark hair, a lock curled and plastered to his forehead, and he smiles a little, thankful no one is aware of his blush as the lad helps him to his aching feet. “Alright?” The lad nods, his cheeks darkening in colour to fit the colour palette of his sweater, a soft rose petal flush. “I'm Peter, Peter Dawson.” 

Alex tries and feels the name against his tongue. “Nice to meet you, Peter Dawson.” He says, the boat swaying a little in the dark, inky sea as the soldiers hurry from the vessel and onto the dry, firm ground that reeks oh so strongly of Great Britain. “M’Alex,” He says slowly after a moment, nodding as if make himself sure, realising how long it had been since he’d properly introduced himself to anyone. He only just knew the name of the wiry looking lad he’d fought ever so closely alongside for the past week, good and brave tommy. Peter grips onto his hand still, his pale fingers contrasting to the dirt encrusted into Alex’s. What a pair they were, or could be, Alex supposed, nodding gently before he realised they were now the only two alone on the boat.

The old bloke was mooring it up, lacing the thick rope to the iron hoop on the wall, and Peter had apparently lost the urge to be the help he had been when they’d ricocheted onto the boat that morning which was being sent into the unknown horrors of that war so close and across the channel. They're staring at each other, for a few seconds that feel like years, and Peter’s hands are settled on the sides of Alex’s orange life jacket, veins on his forearms straining a little as his fingertips moved to the bobbled and damp fabric of his uniform. “S’bloody cold up here,” Alex laughed, the worn leather toes of his boots pressing into Peter's smart shoes and Peter tugs the shivering lad into his chest on instinct. His sweater was getting damp from the dirty water dripping continuously straight from his skin, almost to the point where Peter thought that if he were to slit Alex’s wrist, he would bleed the oily saltwater. 

“I did shit out there,” Alex chokes softly, brushing the side of his hand across his brow and his damp eyelashes, and as his eyes blinked shut, he could feel the bombs ticking and rupturing through the metal skeleton of various boats, or the gun fire penetrating, screeching through not only ships, but bodies. “Watched people die every minute, mate, and did fuck all about it. Just wanted to be...here, you know, home.” He lets out a weak laugh, pointed wrist bone brushing the dew from the end of his red flushed nose. “Went to war to become a hero and came back barely surviving.”

Blackness is running from Alex’s hair and down Peter’s neck where the Alex’s face lays, settled in the crook of his throat, which smelt so strongly of warmth and deep sandalwood, and Peter can feel as his whole figure shudders. He can hardly imagine the shit that all those men that had piled like sardines in a tin onto their boat had experienced since the beginning of this godforsaken war. What he had witnessed today had been more horrific than he could have ever imagined; he’d lost George, he’d watched men’s brains blown from their skulls and fires roar across the surface of the expanse of ocean. His fingers comb softly through Alex’s hair and whisper against his scalp, as if to calm him, comfort him, as the soldier rocked hard with the motions of conflict; the war experienced by Alex was depicted in his flesh. You could spot that scarring from afar.

“Come on,” Peter coaxes lightly, fingers soft on Alex’s sides and guiding him carefully off the boat, the moon catching the deathly sheen of oil once more. “Let's get you on that train, get you back home,” He says, taking  
Alex’s palm in his own rather forcefully, even though he rather liked the feel of it himself. It's a little bit of a chore, guiding dazed Alex through the bustling crowd that moved as once towards the train, wet uniform slapping at Peter’s legs as he tries to get the lad at least somewhere to sit. The other wiry lad had remained close, and Peter pondered on the connection between the two of them, wondered what horrors tainted the inner curving of their minds and tied them together as one. 

Alex is stumbling a little, barely holding himself up, Peter realises, however he doubts that the soldier would ever admit it. Poor lad grabs a slightly charcoaled rock of bread and tries it with his teeth, a blanket hooked over his shoulder. The material felt just lighter than the uniform that clung to him, and it unnerved Alex to the pit of his stomach. The same blankets that was supposed to warm them had been used to shield the dead and keep their dignity, where most lay with bullet holes cutting through their lives. It felt too much like war here, even though the silence outside brought an idyllic and tranquil sense of peace; neither Alex, nor tommy, or any of the other soldiers collapsing onto this train could forget the screech of bombs and bullets or the whir of torpedoes and enemy planes picking them off like fish in a barrel. 

The soldier stares at the steps for a while, knowing he's going to be separated from this lad that plucked him from the ocean with so much grace, and one of the only people whom offered him even an ounce of sympathy and care. Peter’s eyes glow with a faint incandescence, blue like the sea that had swallowed Alex and thousands of other men, only a small platoon of them spat free; and it sets him on edge. He just needs to get away, get home, away from the sob of war that fills his head. 

“Better be going,” Alex nods, attempting to smirk in that half arsed way all the pretty birds at home always praised him for, yet he was aware it was plastered more like a grimace on his face. “You better had,” Peter says, thumb brushing across the wax like strands of Alex’s hair and nudges them carefully behind the shell of his ear. It hurts to let him go, as Peter knows, deep down, fate was the reason his hand gripped Alex’s when all he had was nothing, and all he had craved was basic survival. 

Alex takes one slow step into the belly of the bustling train and moves to hold up his hand. “Thank you for everything,” He says truthfully, smiling slightly more genuinely now. “I'll see you around, Peter Dawson,” Alex grins cheekily, bowing his head in acknowledgement as Peter steps back from the track. The red of his sweater pools at is elbows as he raises a hand in response, waving just like an old friend would. “Stay safe, Alex.” Peter nods, before hearing the rattle of the train as it begins to slowly scoot away along the worn tracks, and he turns on his heel, inspecting the oil stained into his skin. The imprint of Alex was patterned into the coarse blackness, and Peter carefully traces the lines of Alex’s Palm that were obvious on scanning the dirt that coated his knuckles and was embedded beneath his fingernails.

Alex’s walks through the cobbled streets, boots knocking lightly on the red brick pathway. He was wearing his uniform, tastefully green, much cleaner since the last time he’d visited. His skin was browned, slicked with the sun's kiss, and his hair hung over his forehead, shading him from the brisk winds. It reeked of the salt-taste he’d thought he’d managed to forget, and tiptoeing down the steps to the small harbour, Alex drops to his knees and ducks his hands into the slowly lapping ocean, washing at his face. 

Settled on his knees, his gaze focuses on the horizon which seems a thousand miles away, and his hungry eyes suppose they could see the brief line of land across the channel if he squints hard enough. It seems forever ago, that he was stranded out on that beach, even though he revisits during every dreamless sleep, rewatches the bombs fall like dead birds from the heavens and sees his mates fall to his feet, utterly lifeless. He shivers a little, pushing himself to his feet and inspects a little dirt under his fingernail, scraping it free. Any dirt on him now made him choke, too much like the oil that had trapped him, tried to engulf him and squeezed his chest so hard his ribs should've snapped. 

He pushes the dirt free and flicks the speck into the water before beginning to trace his way down beside the small boats that bob comfortingly up and down and up and down on the slowly wobbling water, letting out a weak exhale. He couldn't shake the feeling that the reason he was here was because he was going to have to go back out there, even though the war was just over, and he was safe now. Alex’s stomach feels unsettled, yet when he finally catches sight of the small little boat, it makes a tiny grin break out on his face, and a breath escapes his lungs. 

He toes the little vessel so it rocks, moving his hair from in front of his eyes, and bends down to touch it, before sidestepping back when he hears a call of “Oi, mate, what the fuck are you doing?” 

Alex’s stumbles before turning quickly, moving to stare at the man standing at the foot of the steps. He was older now, lines worked into his soft and pale cheeks, blond hair longer yet still waxed neatly. “Peter Dawson!” Alex grins, standing up to his full height, hand resting on the wall beside him. 

Peter looks at him in blank confusion for a moment, before his face changes, and he laughs. “You're..” He thinks hard, but can't place a name. It's funny, he thinks, because this soldier has waltzed through his head, in his daydreams and night dreams for years, it seems; yet he can't remember a name for the life of him. 

Alex smirks, “Alexander,” He says, “Alex,” He steps closer, adjusting the khaki collar and exposing the bronze skin at the bottom of the column of his throat to Peter. It makes Peter’s breath catch, and he drags the meat of his palm over his eyes to attempt to silence the blasphemous thoughts dotting in front of his eyes. 

Alex looks as if he's grown, or he's at least standing taller, and the uniform he's wearing is neat and much smarter than when he was doused in that brine and oil back on that fateful day of the war. His eyes are blackish green under thick, damp lashes, and his cheek dimples as he laughs. “Peter Dawson, you're staring, and you haven't said a word,” 

The soldier rests a hand on the younger boys side, nervous to be touching him but dying to do it all the same, and Peter snorts, glancing down at the fingers curled into the material of the sweater he’d slipped on that morning. “You're different,” He says, eyebrows furrowed before his knuckles press gently against his chest, nudging them against the rough fabric coating Alex’s body. 

“War changes the best of us, so it was bound to wreck me.” Alex says bluntly in reply, glancing down at the hand on his chest, shaking his head. “It's the worst place I've ever been,” He nods towards the sea, shrugging and shifting his hand to Peter’s back, feeling the warmth of his spine tingle at his worn fingertips. Peter nods, glancing out at the sea before back at the man in front of him, “Changes you or kills you,” He laughs. 

Alex snorts. “You're not wrong,” He laughs, goes to comb his hand through his hair before another's beats him to it, and Peter’s slender fingers push Alex’s dark hair away from his eyes and tucks it neatly behind his ear, just as he had done years before. They move closer, ever so much closer, until Peter’s palms are flat to Alex’s chest and he can feel his chest fluttering with soft intakes of breath, and Alex’s is gripping at Peter’s waist. If either of them get caught, both of them are dead, they're both sure of it. 

“Got sent to Italy.” Alex murmurs softly, tongue brushing over his full mouth as Peter watches intently, and Alex laughs, warm breath over Peter’s face. “S’warm out there, found myself a pretty Italian bird but she hardly compared to Collins.” Alex snorts, rolling his eyes as Peter curves an eyebrow inquisitively. “Remember the RAF pilot you saved from Dunkirk? Ran into him at one of the camps. Great man, mate, great all over, let me tell you.” 

Peter groans, wants to shove Alex away, but nods all the same. That Collins guy had been rather good looking, for sure, Peter had felt the thickness of the pilot's arms and the definition of his back when he’d pulled him from the water with that blue uniform stuck to his skin. “Thought you were fighting a war out there,” Peter tuts a little under his breath, and Alex is moving closer to the point he can hear both of them breathing, just a little out of sync. “Oh I was.”

In all honesty, Alex isn't sure if the first brush of their mouths is completely on purpose, but when Peter's fingers grip at the collar of his jacket and pull him tighter and closer, he decides it definitely was. Alex’s thumbs curl under the hem of the sweater, touching the soft and milky skin of Peter’s bare back, thumbing all gentle at the defined muscles near to his spine. Peter’s mouth tastes like peppermint, all soft and biteable and Alex licks his tongue across the roof of his mouth. It's calming, comforting, because Alex doesn't feel like he’s drowning anymore, he can't taste seawater or hear it rattling in his ears, he just tastes the sweetness of Peter’s breath and the feeling of their mouths together. 

It was the same kind of feeling Alex had had when he kissed Collins in the darkened corner of the camp stowed away in Italy, felt inside his uniform slacks and bit at the skin of his throat; yet this was stronger, all he could think about was Peter. His hands on his chest, creasing his shirt, dragging them behind a wall and into privacy. 

“Can't breathe,” Alex chokes after a second, chest filling with water before Peter rubs the tip of his thumb over the sharpness of his cheekbone. His face had hollowed out, Peter notices, and the blue black under his eyes makes him look gaunt and deathly; lad looks like he really needs a good meal, not just a quick kiss. “Calm,” Peter breaths, nosing against his jaw, eyelashes tickling at the flush of Alex’s cheek. 

They’re pressed chest to chest, and Alex settles his head back, blinking and staring up at the sky. “Taste of salt water never leaves,” He says slowly, Adam's apple bobbing, “But it did, just then,” He lets out a stark laugh, pressing his mouth all chaste to Peter's before ducking his head into his shoulder, mirroring a time so long ago. Peter rests a hand on the nape of Alex’s neck and feels his pulse throbbing there, as it did everywhere, all over his skin. He was warm, and oh so alive, and just that alone made Peter’s knees knock. 

A vein pops in Alex’s neck as he kisses heartily at Peter’s throat, the latter's hands gripping all tight at the formers elbows. Peter grunts, soft, as Alex’s teeth nip at his neck and jaw, catching on the woollen collar of his sweater. He starts, breath caught in his nose, “did I ever..” Peter stumbles over his words and shifts to grip tighter st anything he can, mainly the godawful scratchy material. “did I ever tell you that this uniform makes you look good?” He manages to choke out. 

Alex’s laughs. Throws his head back. Glancing at Peter, his eyes still dark, he kisses him so deeply their teeth knock. 

“You didn't. But you can show me.”


End file.
